Nita

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

The dazzling sunset plays along the crystal facets of the lovely wine goblet in my hand. I raise a toast to the warm spring day and to the goblet’s prior owner. My friend Nita, whose spirit glowed as colorful as the evening before me, lives on in my heart. 

Nita succumbed to lung cancer. As a close friend and nurse, I had the privilege of helping care for her in those last unforgettable days. Nita was no stranger to difficult situations and the depth of her life experience informed her simple yet profound final advice to me: “Keep havin’ good times,” and “Make the best decisions you can at the time and move on.”

Nita’s given name was Wanita. “Wanita With a ‘W’,” she would quickly and habitually stipulate before others tried to spell her name more conventionally. There was no time for extra consonants or vowels when it came to one’s identity; Nita did things her own way.

Ice blue eyes were her most striking feature yet her demeanor was anything but chilly. Despite hardship, Nita always sported a grin and an eager “What’s goin’ on?” when we gathered. Her eyes would dance on arrival to dinner, a loud “Sure smells good in here!” ringing from the back door as she entered. We were “her people,” and her family ours. 

A purveyor of unorthodox greeting cards, Nita would make sure they unexpectedly arrived in our mailbox. When they did, they always delivered some seriously humorous fodder. She referred to our small family as “almost all my friends,” signing cards with the same moniker.

A banker by profession with an elegant vocabulary and knack for numbers, her wit and adorably quirky personality were her true currency. This combination of humor and intelligence were the foundation of quiet gracefulness she and her equally resilient husband employed to weather more than their fair share of life’s hurricanes. They have been, to this day, one of the strongest kith we have ever had the privilege to refer to as kin. 

When I was a new, overwhelmed mother, Nita and company were there to hold my hand. Having experienced more perils than any parents should, she bolstered enormous personal courage to overcome her anxiety and come check out our new arrivals – her first maternity ward visit in years. Her willingness to work through years of understandable angst to support our new family was not lost on us. I can only imagine how exhausting that visit was for them. 

Through the guise of fun, visits to their family cabin would help us all move forward in a variety of developmental directions. One summer, one of my daughters, underwhelmed with reading, had an epiphany at the tender age of about eight. One evening, unable to find the kid before dinner, we discovered her crouched behind a chair, a copy of the National Enquirer firmly in her grasp. Thanks to dear Nita, the outrageous stories had her mesmerized – and reading! 

Nita’s knowing wink and smile helped this Type A mom realize that success comes via many genres of literature, even those curiously unconventional. “Ya gotta know what’s goin’ on!” she would exclaim as I regularly raised my eyebrows at Nita’s rotating collection of cheesy tabloids.

Nita’s hair provided her endless personal consternation that made me chuckle. Still teasing the top, she would adamantly profess: “I have a flat head, you see, and I need the height.” On the rare occasion she would entertain a new style, the results would always fail to meet her expectations. Ever the stubborn Minnesotan, she would again take matters into her own hands to restore her signature look, beating a hasty retreat to the bathroom mirror with scissors, teasing comb, and large can of hairspray. 

Regifting was an expected Christmas “tradition” and there was no one more professional at this than Nita during her favorite time of year. Re-gifts of family items from some of her deceased relatives, while annoying to some of the family, were heartwarming to me. Aside from a garishly rogue 1970s picture frame one year (that was immediately donated), several glassware treasures are used in my kitchen to this day. 

Her holiday reverie also included a sea of (lovingly described) “cheap shit from China,” beribboned with her signature repurposed red yarn.  Every bit of minutiae was wrapped to provide maximum joy for the kids and grandkids for endless unwrapping opportunities. While her hubby just shook his head, Nita took great delight in watching the younger set plow through the paper tsunami on the floor, spreading yulefetti everywhere. Christmas Eve with this raucous bunch is still something we enjoy, and while Nita cannot be there physically, her soul and antics are alive and well. 

Peppermint pigs were part of Nita’s gifting spree, snuggled in their felt bags along with a small hammer. Whacking the swine was supposed to prompt the sharing of a family memory as it traveled to each station around a holiday dinner table for dessert. Another gifted item in need of a blow was the “Chocolate Orange” that, when smacked, would fall into tidy wedges. This yearly violence was another iteration of Nita’s unfailing quest for unusual fun.      

A big ham with Nita’s homemade raisin sauce and handcrafted chocolate coconut bonbons anchored the Christmas potluck. I am happy to report these food preferences live on as the next generation crafts the raisin sauce, and as new love collaboratively shapes the sweets for not only celebrations but a new trajectory.

Through the sharing of both happy and challenging times, the fibers of our two families’ lives have been inextricably tangled in the soft, pliable knot of deep understanding and friendship. There is poetry, after all, in sharing tears and laughter for so many years.   

Dusk now and my wine glass empty, Nita’s favorite song, Bad Moon Rising, fills my head. Smiling heavenward, misty-eyed, I know Nita must surely see us from her window seat in the Milky Way. Cigarette in hand, she is humming another beloved metaphorical melody: “I’ve got friends in low places…”